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In the mornings, when the car's started up and the windscreen wiped, the condensation from the night sits atop where the wipers can't reach, untouched, safe. And every few seconds, the wipers come back, attacking the stray stream of water that's wandered from its safe haven, perhaps lured out by gravity, perhaps swelled up with too much of... something.

Of course it's safer to stay with the crowd. Just sitting on top of the windshield, doing nothing much at all, until the sun comes at noon and evaporates it away. Rising up into the sky, into the cumulus that hides the magnificent orb, radiating a halo of warmth. But that takes time. For all the impatient droplets, far too much time. That's why they rebel. Diverging from the main group, into the path less traveled... On the other hand, the machine does not tolerate resistance of the system. With a swift flick, the stream is no more... rebellion is not a safe way to go. Yet, with a dream of freedom, is there any other way to escape the dreary foggy mornings in the unremarkable suburbs?

Trapped in the oligarchical society ruled by the windshield wipers, what are they to do? Some will always make a run for it. Like when you're at the lights, and that one stream makes a dash for the bottom of the windshield, before you quickly flick the wipers and down go the oppressive arms of justice.

But then sometimes you're not fast enough. Accelerating down the windscreen and down onto the bonnet, no way to stop, no way to slow down, fueled only by the swelling of weight inside its heart and gravity's pull at its heartstrings. Falling past the petrifying yellow irises of the blinking demon, spilling a brilliant pattern for a nanosecond as light fills it up, wholly. And holy.

And another nanosecond later?

Splash.

Onto the concrete, and there is no more.